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Onward!

It took several days before Meg could speak properly – she explained it to her employers as the result of her slipping down the stairs and landing on her face. No security cameras meant no questions, so Meg was free to be as beaten and bruised as she wanted or needed to be in order to make her plan work.

Jackson stayed, lingered, became an evil specter around the bar. The regulars knew, somehow, that he didn't fit there. It wasn't just the clothing, the attitude, the sudden interest in being the last one out of the bar every night – it was the sudden change in Meg. She hadn't ever been what anyone would call healthy, even when she first started work, but his presence made it worse. Coffee, cigarettes, alcohol, and stress were her four food groups, and she collapsed into bed any time she wasn't actively at work behind the bar or serving tables on the floor. Meg's regulars finally took to simply outlasting Jackson at the bar, which only prompted a change in his strategy. If he couldn't have her on her ground, he would simply have her on his.

After that first night, Jackson was much smarter about where he left his marks as well; tatting up her face wouldn't do. He already knew his presence wasn't exactly welcome at the bar; if he went too far and left anything else quite so visible he knew the regulars would be paying him a visit. 'I'm paying for a hotel room I'm not even using. Enough of this shit with the attic. She'll be going back with me, back home, eventually.'

Meg went through her usual routine of closing up and waiting to see which route Jackson would go for access to her – over the bar, behind it, on it – it never mattered which, as long as he got it over with and she went through the act of Appearing Desperately In Love. Every time, it was easier to bleed her brain off from the rest of her body and float back to memories of Joe and touching the slight texture of his tattoo, rolling the soft ends of his hair across her fingertips, or the way she would curl into his lap or against his chest and feel the heat of his skin. In those moments, it didn't matter if Jackson was on her or under her, how drunk either of them was, whether he was forcing her to her knees or tying her to the bed – it was all just some vague physical sensation that didn't matter because it wasn't Joe, it wasn't anyone she wanted. 'And that'sthe whole point of this. Keeping everyone safe.Doesn't matter what happens to me. Just shut up and take it, Meg.'

Joe shut down backstage, refusing to speak to anyone more than was necessary to get through a promo, segment, or match. After that, it was back to workouts, hotels, meals, bed, and unfortunately, charity events. Corporate, now that Meg was gone, had forced him to take a date to the Hall of Fame ceremony, and he balked mightily but was overruled. He couldn't understand it himself – if he was over Meg, if that chapter was closed and he was done, then what difference did it make who he took with him to a two-hour, semi-social event? Joe's skin crawled when they touched for photographs, and of course, photographers were everywhere.'What's wrong with me? I need to leave. I can't leave. I need to throw up. Go smile, Joe. Smile. Look happy. I promised Meg I wouldn't go to these things anymore. Why am I here? Where is Meg?'

Randy and his girlfriend were in attendance as well, cordially cold, both toward Joe and each other. Something was off-kilter there, too, but Joe couldn't put his finger on it. Everyone was emotionally exhausted, that much was true. The strain was evident on even Dave's face, and he had to go to Randy's side more than once to remind him to stop fidgeting, not clench his hands, or quit checking the doors. Randy's girlfriend, having had enough of it all after Dave's fourth visit to their table, made a highly public exit from the event. Joe couldn't catch all of it, but was close enough to hear her tell Randy she couldn't take it, felt like he wasn't hers anymore.

Randy's facial expression never changed, even as his girlfriend shoved him, then barged out the door. Dave wandered over to him, patted his arm, tried to be reassuring, but Randy's face remained like stone. Joe sighed; he knew that feeling – nothing really registering in your head, other than knowing things were unraveling and wouldn't stop.

Time to take a chance; it wasn't like it could get worse. Joe walked over, but realized too late he hadn't formulated a plan any deeper than, 'Try.'

"Hey, uh...hey, Randy." Joe stammered out a half-assed greeting; opening up any line of conversation was going to be much harder than he thought, even with Dave there as a buffer.

Dave looked up from Randy to Joe, edgy at being trapped between them. "Joe, now might not be the best time to -"

"Randy told me there never is a best time, Dave. Remember, Randy? Right before the contracts came up. So, here I am." Joe didn't have a clue where he was going, but knew he was walking on thin ice, bring up Meg in such a backhanded way.

"What the fuck do you want, Joe?" Randy was exhausted, not angry, and didn't care to entertain the conversation a moment longer than he had to.

"Heard from her lately?"

"No. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

Joe sighed, heavily. He noticed Meg's medallion, now on a different chain, around Randy's neck, and had to forcibly keep his hands at his sides to stop from snatching it back. His mouth, however, had different plans. "You have something that belongs to me, Randy."

"You know what, Joe? You have something that belongs to me, too."

Dave tightened his grip on Randy's arm and began a forward push. "Let's go get a drink. Of anything. And some air. Now."

Randy shoulder-checked Joe as he shoved past him towards the bar, and Joe took off towards the mens' room to prevent himself from turning and punching Randy squarely in the back of the head. Instead, he punched the stall divider in the restroom, feeling another, sharper twinge low in his stomach. 'Stress. Fucking stress. Where is she? I need her to come home. I don't even know how to find her, I should have been answering her calls, I'm breaking apart, and why do I keep talking about me? Randy's right, I'm such an asshole. It's not about me, it's about her. What the fuck is happening to her?' Joe swung again, and the pain in his stomach intensified. Gasping, he leaned against the counter, trying desperately to catch his breath before he went back out to tell his date he, too, was leaving.

At the bar, Randy slammed back shot after shot of tequila. Dave let him have three before calling him off and telling the bartender to simply put two tumblers on a tray, along with the bottle, and follow them out to a table. Refusing to let go of Randy's elbow, he half-dragged, half-pushed him out to the largely empty veranda and off into a corner, waiting for the tray to be shuttled along to them.

"You're going to break your liver if you keep that shit up. Meg wouldn't be happy with you."

"Meg's out there doing the same shit if not worse, so save the lecture." As if on cue, the tray materialized along with a waiter, who graciously accepted a tip from Dave before backing away.

"Randy...you know what I mean. We have to be able to...I don't know. We have to be functional for her, if she isn't."

"Fuck functional. At least for tonight. My girl walked out on me. The one who matters, anyway." He poured generously into one tumbler, paused to think, then splashed a little extra over its top before pushing the unused glass to the side and drinking directly from the bottle.

"Okay, you know what? Talk to me about that. What's this 'my girl' thing that you pull out every time Joe goes all Captain Dickwipe on Meg? I know you're the protective big brother, but this is different."

Randy tensed, looked around, and then realized he was caught by his own mouth. "Nothing. It's...nothing. Meg's...always been there for me, and I get a little...angry...when he goes off on her like she's-"

"Bullshit. Your girlfriend just walked out on you, publicly, and you didn't even blink. I heard what she said – that you're not there anymore. You're wearing Meg's medallion, and you resized the chain on it so you could wear it. You pick up phone calls that could just as likely be a sex-starved ring rat as they could be our little runaway. You just told Joe he has something that belongs to you. And you've never once faulted Meg for having her breakdown – instead, you make every possible justification you can think of. So try again. I've got twenty years of 'Oops, fell in love' experience on you, I think I know it when I see it."

"Dave, shut the fuck up."

"Nope. You're putting yourself through silent hell. Honestly, you're taking it worse than Joe is, you're just not talking about it. Other than when you're calling Joe a cocksucker. Then, you're pretty loud, I'll give you credit."

Staring down at the bottle of tequila – 'And why is it always tequila? Just like it's always caramelsand roses with her, it's always that goddamned flowery tequila with me. It's...like roses?' - Randy rolled his thumbs across the surface of the bottle, feeling the cold smoothness of the glass under his fingers.

"Dave, sometimes I fucking hate you." He refused to look up, not trusting his eyes to stay clear. "I fucking hate that he got to her first, I fucking hate that I know her better than anyone else, I fucking hate our stupid, fucked-up timing, I hate Jackson, I hate everything. Everything. The split second I saw her, I knew I was done."

Dave sipped at his tequila, more out of politeness than any real desire to drink, and kept quiet, waiting for Randy to continue.

"I was such a goddamned train wreck after that divorce, and Meg was the only person who took it all on and never said a word. You don't even know. I was trying to wreck myself. Stupid shit at work, stupid shit outside of work...anything I could do to tempt fate. To try to make a disaster happen. The shit I laid on her...I was such a miserable dick. She was just so...patient. Like she was telling me to just...bring on my worst and it was all okay. There was nothing I did that she couldn't...fix? Man, I don't know."

Randy sighed and slouched down in his chair. "I don't know how I survived some of those randoms. I should have been back in treatment, shit, I should have been in a padded room on a funny farm. The more I talked to her, the more I...I guess I changed how I looked at her. She never asked me for anything, never told me I had to tell her anything, never gave me lectures, never laid down an ultimatum, nothing. But I didn't want her to be a rebound..."

"Which was the right thing to do." Dave chuckled. "You might have a soul after all, Orton."

Randy popped up a middle finger, but managed a wry smile before continuing. "And after a while, it was like I realized I just...I did but she didn't...look at me that way. Or I guess I was never sure. And I didn't want to fuck it up by pretending something was there when it wasn't. I figured I laid so much shit on her that she couldn't...wouldn't look at me as anything other than her fucked-up friend. That we were too much alike."

"And of course, then there was Joe. And by the time there was Joe, you were seeing someone else, too." Dave tried filling in the blanks, not wanting Randy to struggle for words any more than he had to.

"Yeah. So there was nothing I could do, really. She was so happy, finally. She seemed like she was happy, anyway. Once her and Joe straightened their shit out." Randy took another giant pull off of the bottle. "And then Jackson came back, and she lost it."

"And now here we are."

"Well, here we are. Wherever she is...who knows."

"You know just like I do, Randy. She's told you all the stories, probably more than me. If she went anywhere, she went back to New Orleans. If she said she has a plan, she has a plan. Probably not the most intelligent thing we've ever heard, but a plan."

"And what kills me is, we could have just lawyered it out."

"We?" Dave looked perplexed. "You know she wasn't letting Jackson anywhere near Joe. There was no 'we' that was gonna happen there."

"Me." Randy was back to rolling the tequila bottle around in his hands; the cold glass reminded him of Meg. "Me. I'm so far into the company...there's not much that'd take me down, short of testing positive for meth or actually killing somebody. If she had just stayed in the hotel room five more minutes instead of trying to kill me with a Kleenex box, I could have told her that. I would have protected her, but she never...wants that from me." Finally, his voice caught, and he drank again to force the burning to force down the emotion.

"Nothing's done yet, Randy. We stop through there after the next pay show. Maybe she'll show up. And we're both going to rip that town apart to find her, you know that."

Randy nodded. The motion caused Meg's medallion to slip from behind his shirt collar and clink against the neck of the bottle of tequila, both men startling at the tiny noise.

"She's okay," Randy whispered, "I think it means she's okay."

"Jackson, stop!" Meg was wailing, unable to stop either the noise or the bleeding. "Please, just...just for a minute. I can't breathe right."

She knew her ribs were broken; things in her chest were gritting together that never had before, but it was the blood blinding her eyes that was scaring her. She couldn't brace for the next impact if she couldn't see it coming, and her awkward landing against the headboard of his hotel bed had opened a long laceration across her scalp. 'Bet it beats Randy's fifteen staples from that ladder match. Why do I even think of this shit?'

Jackson dragged her up to her knees; Meg could feel her scalp tearing as he lifted her entirely by her hair. "Did you just tell me what to do, bitch? Did you just tell me not to do something?"

"Jackson, please," Meg whispered, "I feel like I'm gonna die. You didn't do it, I'm just clumsy. I fell getting on the bed, that's all." 'Yeah, when you put your foot through my side. That's when I fell. Just let me get dressed. That's all I need from you right now.'

"You look just fine to me. Now stay on the bed. And shut your mouth unless I need it for something."

Silently, Meg thought of a thousand ways to kill him. 'That's fine. When I'm dead by the end of this little marathon fuck session of yours, I hope you have a Plan B for body disposal.'